


eldritch horrors

by dashwood



Series: mayhem and mystery [1]
Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés is a pretentious thrill-seeker, Crack, Fluff, Literary References, M/M, Martín isn't scared of no ghosts (that's what he claims anyway), Maybe the ghosts are the friends we made along the way, Mention of Andrés / Tatiana (in the past), Mention of Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Pining, Self-Loathing, Swearing, Tatiana is there too, because I needed one functioning braincell to be present at all time, betad by boom_slap you're a darling, buzzfeed unsolved au, early friendship, spooky content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “When you told me that you wanted to film me,” Martín said after a moment, because he wanted to hear Andrés' voice. Because he wanted his attention. "I thought you meant—”Tatiana cleared her throat, pointedly, and Martín clamped his mouth shut.“I thought you meant something else,” he finished lamely. There, he thought, the PG13, safe-for-work-version.Or: The Berlermo Buzzfeed Unsolved AU literally no one asked for.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Tatiana, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Series: mayhem and mystery [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1851757
Comments: 25
Kudos: 50





	eldritch horrors

**Author's Note:**

> Thumbnail & Video editing by [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works)
> 
> **The Eldritch Horrors of the Hernández Log House**
> 
> The boys are traveling to the Hernández Log House, a derelict cabin deep in the woods of Selva de Irati, Navarra, where a gruesome murder upset the balance between good and evil. Ever since then, the house has – allegedly – been used for Satanic rituals and occult séances. It is said to be haunted by ill-begotten spirits harboring dark intentions. Will the boys escape the judgement of the Eldritch One? 
> 
> Don’t forget to like and subscribe! And follow us on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sorrydearie) | [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com/) for more spooky content! 
> 
> 17,022,424 views | Nov 18, 2019   
>  54K Likes | 6.2K Dislikes | Share | Save 

Martín crossed his arms in front of his chest, shifting his weight from one foot onto the other. He couldn’t feel his nose and ears, and his cheeks were prickling under a sheen of frost. Not much longer now and he’d turn into an icicle. 

The night was cold, pitch-black. Andrés would probably call it _midnight dreary_. He had always had a fondness for Poe, for Hawthorne, for Lovecraft. He appreciated the darkness, welcomed it into his soul like an old friend. The aesthetic, the beauty, the tragedy. 

Martín was the complete opposite. 

He couldn’t stress enough how much he hated this. He hated the frigid night air biting at his skin with sharp teeth, hated the eerie silence ringing around them, broken only by the sound of snapping twigs, of crunching leaves (and yes, he hated that he flinched every time. Hated, too, that he couldn’t shake the impression that the sounds were closing in on them. That something was watching, lying in wait). 

Martín shuffled his feet. Pulled his leather jacket more tightly around himself. He should have listened to Andrés and grabbed a warmer coat. He could see the puffs of his breath floating from his lips, little clouds of white mist lingering in the air like ghostly specters. But fuck, he couldn’t even see past his outstretched hand. Past the halo of light pulsating from the camera in Tatiana’s hands, there was nothing. 

Nothing but the dark, _glistening_. 

And as was always the case when one was swathed in the cloth of the night, Martín began to imagine that something would jump at him and tear off his face, any moment now.

_Intrusive thoughts_ , his mind supplied, always eager to come up with a rational explanation. It was an integral part of the human nature to be expecting the worst. To anticipate being preyed on by bigger, badder, more deadly creatures. To stare into the darkness and expect that something was staring back, just biding its time, waiting to crawl out of the shadows, out from underneath the bed, out from within yourself. 

Which was ridiculous, of course. Because monsters didn’t exist. Obviously. Aside from the cruelty of man, there was nothing out there that could harm him. No ghostly apparitions, no things that go bump in the night, no creatures of unknown or disreputable origin. None of the Eldritch horrors Andrés was so intent on unearthing, his white whale. 

Martín jumped when something brushed against the nape of his neck. He whirled around, his hands flying up in a poor imitation of a karate stance. Judging from the amused glint in Andrés' eyes, Martín didn't look half as intimidating as he had hoped. 

Flustered, Martín dropped his arms. 

“Here,” Andrés said in a fond tone, and it was all the warning Martín got before Andrés wrapped his scarf around Martín's neck. Andrés looped the edges into a bow just below his chin, tugging at it once-twice-thrice to make sure that it stayed on, that Martín was all bundled-up. The vicuna wool was soft and fluffy, well-warmed by Andrés' pulse. 

It smelled faintly of Andrés’ cologne, too, clean and citrus-y. 

Martín shivered. 

“Come on,” Andrés said, nodding towards the derelict log house looming behind them. The door stood slightly ajar, creaking in the harsh breeze. Andrés must have managed to pick the lock on the backdoor after all. Either that or he had made good on his threats to smash one of the windows. Andrés was surprisingly resourceful when it came to his wild monster hunt. 

“I suppose I should be glad that you decided to channel your criminal energy into breaking and entering abandoned cabins in the woods,” Martín said as he followed Andrés into the log house. “You could just as easily break into jewelry stores. I could use a new watch.” 

His chest swelled with pride when Andrés' lips twitched into a smirk. 

“Ah, but you don’t understand, Martín. It’s not about the money. It’s about the thrill, the chase,” Andrés said, his voice brimming with awe, with reverence. 

“I know exactly what awaits me inside a jewelry store – pretty baubles, shining, shimmering, splendid. But all the riches of the world couldn’t possibly exceed the sense of fulfillment I am getting from _this_. To discover that which awaits us beyond the veil, that which we can’t even begin to fathom with our human narrow-mindedness. The unimaginable.” 

Oh, that was good. Martín hoped that Tatiana had gotten that on tape. 

“Lovecraft once said that the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents,” Andrés continued in a pensive tone. 

“So,” Martín said, running his Andrés-to-peon translator. "Ignorance is bliss. That's what it boils down to." 

Andrés chuckled, shaking his head. There was a fondness in his eyes, as though he was amused by Martín. By his stubbornness, his eagerness to deny the existence of the supernatural, of the occult. 

As though Andrés was amused by his disbelief. 

They came to a stop in the center of the living room, and it was only then that Martín took note of his surroundings. Inside, the log house looked like any house stripped off its purpose. Its bare bones lay for the world to see, roof beams jutting out of the walls like ribs protruding from a starved body. The wood had succumbed to the hands of time, rotting away and suffusing the muggy air with a scent of earth and fungi. 

Martín craned his head to look around the room, searching the darkened corners for any unwanted presences – rats or other vermin, of course. Because ghosts didn’t exist. 

“The Hernández Log House became infamous when Hugo Hernández went on a rampage and murdered his unsuspecting wife in cold blood,” Andrés explained to the camera. 

There was a small smile playing on his lips, curving them just so at the corners. Or maybe it was a trick of the light, carefully arranged by the silver moonlight seeping through the moth-riddled curtains to kiss Andrés' skin. It sharpened his cheekbones into harsh lines, as sharp as splintered glass, and turned his eyes into bottomless pits. 

He looked beautiful. If he didn’t know any better, Martín would say that there was a touch of Byron in Andrés. The haunted eyes and dark curls, the pale skin. The thirst for darkness and the yearning for the unknown, the unfathomable. 

Actually, now that Martín thought about it, he didn't. Know better, that was. Andrés was surprisingly secretive when it came to his family history. Martín suspected that it was fraught with tragedy, with illicit affairs and unspeakable secrets passed onto each generation like family heirlooms. Andrés, Martín concluded, was a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. He was unknowable, just like the creatures he chased. 

“Do you hear that?” 

Martín's attention snapped back to Andrés. He was looking at Martín expectantly, and so Martín shook himself out of his daze, straining his ears. Nothing. Well, nothing but the wind striking against the walls of the log house and shaking the trees like ragdolls. 

“The only thing I hear is you spewing nonsense about demonic spirits.”

Andrés shushed him. Rude. 

“No, no, listen! _Wer reitet so spät durch Nacht und Wind_? The verse to Goethe’s _Erlkönig_ ,” Andrés explained when he saw the frown on Martín's face. “Can’t you hear the murmur of the wind? Doesn’t it sound like ill-conceived promises? It is trying to lure us outside, into its waiting arms. _And dost thou not hear / The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear_?” 

Martín couldn't help but hang onto his every word, awed. No matter what Andrés was talking about, he always sounded as though the words were pouring right out of his heart, drenched in lifeblood. 

All of a sudden, the window burst open, its shutter slamming against the wall and making Martín jump back in fright. He might have screeched, too (in a manly, dignified way) as the curtains flew across the room, reaching for them with spindly, pale arms. 

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” Martín mumbled under his breath, glaring at the window as though it had personally offended him. 

Andrés just laughed. Martín didn't know how he could be so calm, so unperturbed. If anything, Andrés seemed amused. As if this whole thing was nothing but a joke to him, a pleasant pastime similar to catching a movie or taking a stroll around the park. 

“Let’s take a look around to see if we can find anything of interest,” Andrés said into the camera. “Maybe we can communicate with any lingering spirits or demonic entities.” 

Martín made a great show of rolling his eyes, but deep down he felt frazzled. The incident with the window had thrown him off, and the wind was still pouring into the log house, slapping against his face. 

He cleared his throat as he followed Andrés into a room that lay off to the side, Tatiana trailing at their heels like a silent shadow. 

“You don’t actually believe that these woods are haunted by some kind of child-snatching fairy king, do you?” 

Even though Andrés had turned his back on him to inspect an old wooden chest with intricate markings, Martín still caught a glimpse of the smirk on his face in the mirror hanging above the vanity. 

“The only child-snatching royalty in attendance would be me,” Andrés said, straightening up and smoothing a hand over the front of his velvet blazer. Why he insisted on dressing up to explore cobweb-ridden crawlspaces and mold-infested joints was anyone’s guess; Martín supposed Andrés liked the respect, the admiration people offered him when he looked like that. Powerful, regal. Like he belonged in a Gothic manor himself. 

“You’re neither a child-snatcher nor royalty,” Martín said, before adding in an unsure voice, “I think.” 

“I snatched you out of a bar, the first time we met.” 

“Yeah, but I wasn’t a child.” 

“You are four years younger than I am. You might as well be.” 

Martín huffed, feeling his cheeks burn with indignation. 

“I’m 23,” he reminded Andrés. "Hardly a child." 

Andrés gave a noncommittal hum before disappearing into the bedroom. Martín followed him. A part of him wanted to grab him by the shoulders and haul him back, shake him and yell at him, until Martín was sure that Andrés knew that Martín wasn't a child. That he was a man. 

(He didn’t know why it rattled him so much. Why he cared about what Andrés thought of him. Why he wanted him to know that he was mature and desirable.) 

Martín watched as Andrés reached for the handles of an ancient-looking wardrobe, a massive oakwood monstrosity that towered in one of the corners. It was large enough to fit a person inside, and a part of Martín dreaded that someone would jump out the moment Andrés' hand closed around the handle, brandishing a homemade shiv. 

But to his relief, the wardrobe was empty save for a couple of moths fluttering up into the air. 

“You told me that you wanted to film me,” Martín said after another moment, because he wanted to hear Andrés' voice. Because he wanted his attention. "I thought you meant—” 

Tatiana cleared her throat, pointedly, and Martín clamped his mouth shut. 

“I thought you meant something else,” he finished lamely. There, he thought, the PG13, _safe-for-work_ -version. 

Andrés chuckled, but didn't say anything. Instead, he reached for a picture frame sitting on the small table next to the bed. He stared at it its cracked glass, at the faded picture behind it – blurred shapes of red and white and black and blue. 

“Why did you pick me that night?” Martín asked, fishing. “Why did you ask me to tag along?”

Silence stretched between them, and for a moment Martín wondered if the howling wind had swallowed his words. But then Andrés returned the frame to its place on the bedside table, slowly, before looking up and meeting Martín's eyes. 

“I know you pride yourself in your rational mind, but some things aren’t for us to know,” Andrés said. "Maybe it was fate. Maybe you are half of my soul, as the poets say. I felt drawn to you that night, when I saw you from across the room. I liked the shape of your face, the hue of your eyes, the chip in your teeth. I liked _you_ , Martín. And we _do_ work well together, don’t we? We make a powerful duo.” 

“Yes,” Martín breathed, barely-there. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't control his rabbit heart pounding away inside his chest. Not when Andrés was staring at him like that, his gaze heated, intense. 

“Also,” Andrés added as he turned away, the moment slipping through Martín's fingers like fine sand, “Sergio said that if he had to star in one more of my videos, he’d commit a bank robbery just to get away from me. Can you believe him, Martín? He would rather be locked up in prison than support his prodigious brother.” 

Martín huffed out a laugh. It sounded a bit strained even to his own ears. Fake. 

“Rude,” he said, trailing after Andrés like a stray puppy. He pointedly ignored the questioning look Tatiana threw his way. She was probably wondering why he was blushing so profusely – just because Andrés had looked at him for a second too long, because Andrés had told Martín that he liked him. That he had liked him from the very beginning, even. 

But fuck, Andrés had basically said that they were soulmates. Or at least that was how Martín had chosen to interpret it. How he would remember it. 

Back in the living room, Andrés was going through the books that had been left behind on one of the shelves, a thick sheen of dust flocking to their broken spines. 

It appeared that the owners had left in a hurry; Martín dreaded to think that these were the belongings of the accursed Hernández family. That they were waiting, still, for someone who would never return, who would never again pick them up with care and carry them to the stuffed armchair by the fireplace. That these were the belongings of a murderer, sitting side by side with those of the victim. 

“ _He was no more, and I was his destroyer_.” 

“What?” 

Andrés snapped the book shut and pushed it back between its companions. 

“Charles Brocken Brown,” he said. “How fitting – no, how _poetic_ – that such a dark soul should indulge in this kind of literature. A suitable education.” 

If Martín were a ruder man (with a death wish), he would point out that Andrés seemed to be well-versed in ‘this kind of literature' as well. A hypocrite, always. 

“Let’s check out the cellar.” 

“Wait, hang on,” Martín said. "There's a cellar?" 

There was. And it was exactly what Martín imagined when he had first heard the word _cellar:_ dark, damp and dirty. Well, it was more of a crawlspace, really. Martín could just about stand upright, but Andrés had to duck his head lest he collected the cobwebs gathering at the ceiling, like a man-sized mop. 

“I’ll go first,” Andrés declared, already taking the night-vision camera from Tatiana. He looked undaunted by the fact that he was about to lock himself into a dusty cellar. If anything, he looked excited. There was a manic glint in his eyes, a fire born from adrenaline and thrill. 

Martín envied him for it. To him, these little one-on-ones with the darkness were nothing short of harrowing. Oh, he _knew_ that there was nothing down there that could hurt him. Ghosts didn’t exist. Demons didn’t exist. Monsters didn’t exist. And yet... Call Martín old-fashioned, but something about the thought of locking himself up in a creepy cellar reeking of mold and rat shit didn’t appeal to him. 

(Still, this was what he had signed up for when he had agreed to be a part of Andrés' project. When he had agreed to follow him into the haunts of Spain, to be his loyal companion. His friend.) 

“Kiss for good luck?” Martín asked, and only felt slightly disappointed when Andrés laughed at him. 

Martín climbed back up, telling Tatiana not to film his ass – “Or _do_. It’s my greatest selling point.” Without Andrés, they circled back to the living room, and waited. Martín tried not to think about Andrés, buried a meter beneath their feet, alone. Six feet under, yet undead.

“What do you think will happen once you’re down there, on your own?” 

Martín found Tatiana's eyes in the dark. The pale moonlight made her look like a ghostly apparition herself, a woman in white. 

Usually, she was quiet during their investigations, an impartial observer. But from time to time she would prompt them to talk, hoping to capture something entertaining on tape. Because apparently, the viewers liked the rapport Martín had going on with Andrés. The friendly banter, the way they bickered and teased each other, mercilessly. Like an old married couple. 

“I imagine I’ll get bored,” Martín said, shrugging his shoulders. “All by my lonesome.”

Tatiana lowered the camera to shoot him a wicked grin, her eyes dancing with mirth. 

“Are you trying to chat up cute guys? Again?” She pitched her voice into a low rumble, completely butchering his accent. “My name is Martín Berrote, I am a Cancer and I enjoy long walks on the beach. I am also single and ready to mingle! So if you’re a hot, well-hung guy in the Madrid area, leave a comment with your zodiac and cock size and I’ll get back to you asap!” 

Despite himself, Martín's lips twitched into a grin. 

“Or...” Tatiana pressed on, sounding smug. Knowing. “Is there mayhap a certain someone you have set your eyes on, hmm? A dashing young gentleman, a true romantic? With a passion for art and literature, devilishly handsome. Really knows what he’s doing in bed, even if you have to give him a few pointers every now and then. To get him back on track.” 

“I’m not looking for love,” Martín said. "I just want to get fu-” 

The trapdoor burst open and Martín – well, he didn’t _screech_ per se, but a rather undignified sound tore itself through his throat, nonetheless. Andrés ignored it, but Tatiana wasn’t quick enough to hide her snicker behind her hand. The bitch. 

“Your turn,” Andrés said as he climbed up, looking way too elegant for someone who, for all intents and purposes, was crawling out of a cobweb-ridden hole in the ground. “I had an insightful conversation with the spirit box.” 

“Really?” Martín asked. He was aware that he was stalling and judging from the way the corners of Andrés' mouth lifted into an amused grin, he had caught on as well. Wonderful. 

“Yes,” Andrés nodded, handing him the night-vision camera. Their fingers brushed, and Martín bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from blushing. "I’ll tell you on our way home.” 

When Andrés said _home_ , he – of course – didn’t mean a place they shared together. Andrés lived with Tatiana (even after their breakup, the two had remained inseparable), while Martín was hunkering down in a broke-down flat down East, which he shared with a towering behemoth of a Serb. Mirko had a heart of gold though, and Martín appreciated that he looked intimidating enough to scare off anyone who tried to break into their flat in the middle of the night. Small mercies. 

He could really use Mirko right now. Because for some reason, Martín felt queasy when he climbed back into the cellar. When the darkness enveloped his body, swathing his frame like a cloak. 

The first thing Martín noticed was that it was quiet – too much so. For once Martín wished that he had taken the damned spirit box with him. He hated that thing, hated how it screeched as it ran through random radio stations at an alarming speed, occasionally spitting out an incoherent _what_ or _yes_ or _hey_. 

But right now, he’d gladly take it. Anything was better than the silence – strained, even though Martín was alone. It was broken only by the slow drip-drop of water, the rustling of his leather jacket whenever he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His breathing, harsh and heavy and growing faster by the second. 

The cellar was empty, but the voices in his head were loud. Deafening. It was just like back then. When he was small, when he was vulnerable, when he was afraid. Afraid of the dark, afraid of ghosts and vampires, afraid of the monster wearing his mother’s face. 

His body hadn’t been inside a basement in years, but his imagination had gone there often. His mind was a cruel little thing. It delighted in taunting him, in torturing him. In drawing up images of the scowl on his mother’s face, the hatred in her eyes. 

The scene played out in his head over and over again, like a broken film roll. How she had kicked him down the stairs when he wouldn’t stop crying, how she had locked him up when he wouldn’t stop whimpering, how she had turned his back on him when he wouldn’t stop being himself. Pathetic and worthless and weak. A disappointment. 

A lump formed in his throat, its ragged edges sharp like razors. All of a sudden, it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, and Martín knew with absolute certainty that he would suffocate, that he would _die_ down there. His heart was pounding madly inside his chest, flinging itself against his ribcage like a feral animal. 

And wasn't it funny, the workings of fate? Maybe he had been meant to die in that basement, some 18 years ago. Maybe this was life’s way of saying _I fucked up_. Maybe death was breathing down his neck right this moment, its gnarled hands reaching out…

A whimper tore itself from his throat, a broken, keening thing. He would _die_ down there, any moment now. Alone and cold and fucking afraid. 

Afraid, afraid, _afraid_. 

Screwing his eyes shut, he burrowed further into the warmth of Andrés' scarf, breathing in the smell of lemon peels and laundry detergent. Of _Andrés_. It made him feel safe. Warm and comforted, as if he was stepping into his embrace, as if Andrés was holding him, pressing him against his chest and burying his face in the crook of his neck, stroking his hair. Telling him that everything was alright, that he was going to be fine. 

_Andrés_... 

The trapdoor opened then, and the beam of light falling in through the crack was like a plate of food to a starving man, glittering with fresh fruit and venison. But if the light was a fine dinner, then Andrés' smiling face was a lavish feast – a gift, a treasure, a reward. 

Martín clambered out of the cellar, ungainly and legless. In his eagerness to put distance between himself and the darkness, his past, Martín stumbled over his own feet, knocking into Andrés' chest. Andrés' arms came up to steady him, warm and comforting around his shoulders. 

His touch alone made crawling through hell almost worth it. 

“Are you alright?” Andrés asked, and Martín forced a smile. Squared his shoulders and lifted his chin in a show of confidence. It was all fake, of course. But Andrés didn't need to know how badly the whole thing had shaken him. That he had nearly lost it, left to his own thoughts. To himself. 

"Of course. Fucking perfect,” he said, a bit too loudly. He hoped that Andrés wouldn't catch the way his voice quivered. “Nothing down there.” 

Andrés continued to stare at him, his gaze intense. Searching. It made Martín think that he hadn’t been talking about ghosts. 

“Let’s go,” Andrés said, turning away at last. “There’s nothing here for us. Sometimes, a murder house is just a site of tragedy, haunted by its own past.” 

Oh, how Martín’s heart _thrilled_ to hear these words. 

He wrestled his face into a mask, equal parts relief and fake bravura. 

“Giving up, huh?” 

Andrés smirked, dark and mysterious. 

“ _I have faith in nights_ ,” he said. And then, after a beat: “That’s Rilke.” 

“Of course.” 

“Come on,” Andrés said, trailing his hand down the curve of Martín's arm. “We passed a 24-hour diner on our way here. My treat.” 

To Martín's disappointment, Andrés stepped away from him, slinging his arm around Tatiana’s shoulders. She smiled up at him – warmly, _fondly_ – even as she rolled her eyes. But that was the thing about Andrés. He was bright and vibrant, a comet crashing onto Earth. It was impossible to resist his gravitational pull, to leave him. 

Martín cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his musings, his _schwärmerei_. And fuck, look at him; he was starting to sound like Andrés, peppering in loan words like a pretentious fucker who dropped out of uni to hunt ghosts. Martín couldn’t even begin to imagine how Andrés’ father must have reacted to the news, but judging from the way Andrés’ expression soured whenever someone mentioned his parents, it hadn’t been a pleasant conversation.

“So,” Martín said, his tone teasing. "Next time?” 

When Andrés turned away from Tatiana and fixed him with a dazzling smile, it felt oddly like vindication. 

“Next time,” Andrés said, nodding. "One of these days we'll uncover the truth. We’ll peek behind the curtain and glimpse what awaits us on the other side.” 

Out of the three of them, Andrés was undoubtedly the one with artistic talent, a silver tongue. He quoted Shakespeare and Milton, recited Dickinson and Keats, and sketched graphic renditions of Füsslis’ _Nachtmahr_. But that didn’t mean that Martín couldn't keep up, no. Right now, trailing after Andrés and Tatiana, heading out into the biting night air and towards Martín's beat-up Ford Fiesta, he was reminded of his favorite quote: 

Insanity, Martín knew, was doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from Lovecraft, Andrés quotes Goethe's _Erlkönig_ (the original as well as the translation by Bowring), and Miller’s _The Song of Achilles_ (‘He is half of my soul, as the poets say’).

**Author's Note:**

> > **Nightmares in a Jar** four months ago
>> 
>> Yo, is it just me or does Martín have the biggest crush on Andrés? 
>>
>>> **CryptidCasefile1799** three months ago (edited)
>>> 
>>> I know right? I couldn’t care less about the ghosts, I’m just here for the bromance.
>>>
>>>> **Mayhem and Mystery** three months ago
>>>> 
>>>> Tell me about it. I don’t remember Andrés being that obnoxiously oblivious when we were dating. Maybe I got his last braincell in the breakup. If so, my bad. — Love, Tatiana


End file.
